Apocalypse Eve
by RoseMarie Kaye
Summary: Reconstructed from the Private Diaries of Buffy Anne Summers, the story of what REALLY happened between Buffy & Spike on the night before the final Sunnydale Apocalypse . . .
1. Chapter 1

I don't own any rights to these characters, their story arcs, the basement, or any of the props in the basement. About the only thing I might own is this story's particular combination and sequence of words. And not even all of those. Nevertheless, no copyright infringement is intended.

Many thanks to KaziWren for valuable feedback and comments! (Silk Purse/Sow's Ear Disclaimer applies.)

* * *

Buffy saw Spike lay the talisman on the bed before he stood to watch her descend into the basement. There was a time she would have stopped to get a feel for how dangerous he was in that moment. Even besotted with her, there was nothing tame about him.

But for the last two nights, she had rested unflinchingly in his arms, turned her back to him and relaxed into deep sleep while this dead man, this creature of the night, watched her, awake and alert. She turned at the bottom of the stairs to face him. His blue eyes were clear and calm.

He nodded. "Slayer."

"Champion," she greeted, half-smiling. She shrugged off her green wool jacket.

He eyed it. "Have Faith's healing powers got her back on her feet again, or is she still using your room?"

"Yes."

He crossed his arms and drew himself up. "I suppose that means you think you'll be staying here again tonight, then?"

"Any objection?"

Something in Spike visibly unclenched. "It's relatively early yet, so I thought maybe," he looked again at the bundle of green cloth in her hands, "I thought maybe I'd just be getting the pep talk tonight and you'd be on your way. Lots to do for the big day tomorrow."

She hung her jacket on the back of a chair. Did he really think she wouldn't want to be with him tonight?

"We've done everything we can, Spike. It's time to rest now."

He sat on the bed, looking for his cigarettes, and found only an empty pack.

"Do you need to get more?" Buffy asked, sitting next to him.

He glanced at her. "Actually, I don't need them at all. They're just a good way to remind me to inflate my lungs."

She stared at him. "You smoke cigarettes to keep your lungs working?"

"And they give me something to do with my hands. Have you noticed how distressing it can be sometimes, figuring that out?"

She giggled, and Spike grinned at her. There hadn't been much to laugh about lately, and it felt good. Really really good. She slipped off her shoes and curled her legs under her, leaning against his chest. His arm around her felt good too.

"Spike, I've said some mean things to you in the past. You know, before you left, when—"

He took her hand. Her words conjured up a whirlwind of history between them.

"Let's not do this now, love," he said gently. "Otherwise Big Bad will show up tomorrow to an empty Hellmouth with no one to fight because we'll still be sitting in your basement apologizing to each other."

A fleeting smile crossed her face and she nodded.

"Besides . . . ." He sighed.

"Besides, what?"

"Well, I think I'll be hogging that conversation is all."

She started to protest.

"Uh, vampire here," he interrupted. "Would you unman me by making me less evil than I am?"

"Than you _were_."

"And she goes straight for the kneecaps."

She wondered if he was this easy to love when he was human. Wait, he could never be easy to love. But no one could raise her spirits like he could. And they'd both done a lot of growing up together in the past couple of years. Being with him now after all they'd been through felt . . . comfy.

Lifting her head from his chest, she touched his face, and felt the slightly rough texture of his cheek against her palm as he turned to look at her. Her thumb brushed across his lips, and she watched his clear blue eyes intensify into something shading to violet, a transformation she'd seen again and again in their past when he was in the throes of deep emotion. It always took her breath away.

Impulsively, she kissed him on the lips, then wrapped her arms around his neck and laid her cheek against his. He held her tensely for a moment. Then he took her arms and pushed her away. He stared at her with his angled inquisitive look that meant he wanted to talk. She closed her eyes in dread for a second. Every time she shut him down, she felt like she was doing that puppy-kicking thing.

"Buffy, I know you wouldn't . . . That was—" He rolled his eyes and tried again. "Does this mean you're starting to feel something for me . . . again?"

He said he wasn't one for self-reflection and he worked hard to give that impression, but he always wanted to figure out what things meant. She sighed and let her gaze roam over his face, trying to sort out her thoughts.

She thought her love with Angel was going to be the love for all the ages. She knew she was romanticizing something that would be tough to pull off in real life, even if they could convince Willow to live with them to hex his soul back into his body several times a night. But Buffy just couldn't seem to cut his ties to her heart. She didn't want to let her first love go. Not just yet, anyway.

Meanwhile, there was an apocalypse to avert. And after that, there was a whole world waiting to be explored. With the existence of a new army of Slayers, she could finally be unshackled from Sunnydale. Someone else could take that watch.

But Spike . . . What woman could resist a man who let her protect him, who had no doubt she could and would rescue him if he needed it? Buffy had an edge on his fighting skills, but that never stopped him from scrapping with her. And he would let her fail and laugh at her for it before he ever tried to control her life and force what he thought was best on her.

Unlike, well, just about everyone else she knew. For one, unlike Angel, who left without giving her any say in their future. Yet when he showed up unexpectedly during her fight with Caleb, her heart turned over and her breath caught in her throat. She was literally speechless while she basked in the sight of him.

Angel's tall, dark, and handsome thing had always turned her inside out. But then Spike's athletic, blond, and incredibly sexy thing had a lot going for it too.

Angel was stylish and confident and always the gentleman. Spike was honest and clear-sighted and plain-spoken, even when it upset people. Especially when it upset people.

Angel was broody. Spike was action.

Angel was a dream. Spike was real.

Spike bickered with her and told her uncomfortable truths. But when she needed help, his hand was always there.

She swallowed. Maybe tomorrow she would die. Maybe this was her last chance to tell him how she felt. But if she lived, she wanted to spend some time finding out who she was, who she wanted to be. She couldn't do that as part of a couple.

And one of the big lessons she'd learned from Xander was never, ever, promise too much too soon. She couldn't stand the idea of Spike hurting like Anya.

No, after the First had its ass kicked back to hell, and she was ready for The Talk, he would know she meant every word she said, not think a crisis pushed her into saying something he wanted to hear.

"I thought we decided yesterday this didn't have to mean anything," she said softly.

"Right." He closed his eyes and let his hands slip from her arms. "Look, let's just—"

There it was. The kicked puppy.

"Tell me you love me."

His eyes popped open and he jerked away, giving a harsh laugh that was part incredulous, part cynical, part sad.


	2. Chapter 2

"The day didn't end well for me last time we had this conversation, pet." Spike looked away, then faced her.

"I love you." He inhaled deeply. "You know I do."

"Tell me you want me."

His voice caught in his throat. "I always want you."

The calm that spread through her was the closest she'd felt to peace in a long time. Tomorrow they would fight the First, and she had no idea what the future would bring. But tonight she wanted to celebrate life.

"Leave the shadows, William," she said, "and love me in the light."

He looked down, shaking his head, and let out a breath of cynical laughter. He glanced around the room, then stood and paced. "I told you yesterday, I've never been close to anyone before you."

"What does that mean?"

"It means I died a bloody virgin, all right?" He turned away and crossed his arms tight against his chest. "I've never loved anyone in the light."

Her eyes widened. She didn't know why it surprised her that a proper, young Victorian gentleman might have kept himself tidy for his future wife.

"I can love you on the dark side, but that's not what you want, is it," he said bitterly, putting more distance between them. "The thing is, pet, I can't leave the shadows because I'm not good enough for you." He gripped the punching bag, head bent, his back to her. "Buffy, you said it yourself. I'm—I'm beneath you."

She found herself struggling for breath.

"Spike, of all the demon-fighters we have on the team, you have to know there isn't a single one I would choose over you to have by my side." She walked over to him and touched his back. "And it's not just because you're my best warrior."

When he didn't respond, she grasped his arm, but he wouldn't meet her eyes. She had said many more hateful things to him in their past, so how could this be the stake to find his heart? She took his hand, its hardened callused shape deeply familiar to her, and kissed his palm. She felt his gaze on her, and when she looked up, her heart tightened at the sight of his dark stricken eyes.

"It's a good thing I don't have to breathe because, God help me, Buffy, I can't just now."

Floored by his despair, she drew out a chair and pushed him into it, acutely aware that there was no rise and fall of his chest, no pulse in his neck.

"I don't remember exactly what I said, but . . . Spike, do you want me to leave?"

She stared at the top of his platinum blond head as he sat with elbows on knees. Still as the dead.

Stifling the ache of rejection, she reached for her jacket, but he grasped her arm and pulled her into his lap. He turned his face into her shoulder, and she cradled him, stunned, while he shook in her arms. She had no idea why her words had cut so deeply, but as long as he wept, nothing could persuade her to let go of him. She breathed away the pain of his bone-crushing vampire grip.

"Did you forget?" she whispered in bewilderment against his hair. "I believe in you."

At last, he loosened his hold to swipe at his eyes.

"I'm sorry," he muttered, inhaling to steady himself, "I'm turning into a right ponce."

"Every time I think you couldn't get any stronger," she said, "you surprise me."

She stood up and smoothed her pants legs. "If you're going to let me stay, I say it's time we turn in." She held out her hand.

He looked at it, and raised his eyes to hers. "Will you just hold me, then, love?"

"If that's what you want."

"It is."

He linked fingers with her, and at the narrow bed she lay back, propped against the wall, leaving room for him to stretch out in the inviting curve of her arm. She expected that, emotionally spent, he would sleep. But he stared into her eyes while she took her time exploring the contours of his face with the sensitivity of a blind woman's fingertips.

After awhile, he reached up and looped a curl of her hair around his hand. "I've always liked it long."

The last time he'd said something like that—when he'd asked if she wanted him to call her his Goldilocks—she had recoiled. Buffy gazed unseeing at the basement ceiling. She remembered feeling suffocated by his words. Anxious. Choking on thick syrup. Still drowning in the misery of her resurrection, she had recoiled not from his darkness, but from his sweetness.

And now that she thought about it, when Willow realized she'd gotten Dawn hurt through reckless magicks, she collapsed on the ground, sobbing and desperate. Buffy kept walking away, angry. It was Spike who stopped and looked back in compassion. Dawn needed to get to the hospital, and Buffy knew she could trust him to get the job done. Because of who he was, her heart could thaw a little. Enough to keep from abandoning Willow and regretting it for the rest of her life.

She had made having a soul, being human, her gold standard for goodness, but she couldn't avoid the truth anymore. Spike walked among demons, but given a chance, he reached for the light. He may not have always been able to tell right from wrong back then, but he had started the journey without a soul.

More difficult for her to face . . . Frightened by her failing inspiration on how to defeat the First, she had reached out to her strongest warrior by busting his chops in front of everyone for not being the killer he was when they'd first met. When he was pure evil. Of the two of them, he wasn't the one going into the dark there.

Heat filled her face. Spike looked at her intently, but she couldn't meet his eyes.

Maybe life's decisions weren't simple black or white. Here she was, all love-me-in-the-light, still hankering for the fairy-tale existence of a normal girl, when she'd be facing the darkest fight of her life in a few hours. How old was she, twelve?

When Spike touched her waist, her heart jumped. She kept her expression neutral, but she knew he had already detected her unsteady heart rate and breathing. He began to unbutton her blouse from the bottom up. She stopped his hand with hers.

He hesitated. "I can't promise I'll find my way to roses and pony-rides, love, so if you'd rather not . . ."

_I've seen your radiance, Spike. Sometimes it blinds me. And sometimes . . . _She glanced away and gave a self-forgiving sigh. _Sometimes I just try to keep you in the shadows. Where you belong . . . with me. _

"You can't completely live in the light, and I can't completely leave the dark," she finally admitted. "Do you think there's a middle ground, Spike?"

"Call me William."

Her heart thumped. "William." She released his hand to continue its journey.


	3. Chapter 3

Rating T-M. Worked hard to stay this side of the fine line, but after all, the whole point of this story was to satisfy fans (OK, mostly me) who wanted to see Buffy and Spike get together on that third night . . .

* * *

Her blouse fell open and he traced a line from the dimple in her neck to the dimple in her midriff. Her body sang, reminding her how hard it had been to stay away from him. How could a touch so cold leave such a trail of fire?

He stood, pulled off his shirt, and reached out a hand to help her up. She took it. When he squeezed her shoulders, her blouse fell to the ground, and he pulled her into a kiss that was unhurried yet potent. She didn't remember him kissing quite like that before.

Her friends finally accepted Spike as a fixture in her life, but they would never be able to understand how he could be more than a friend. They could never imagine this, getting drunk on his raw strength wrapped inside his passion. And, this was new, his gentleness. They could never imagine how amazing it felt.

Not that she would ever try to explain. Not that she could. It was one of those things that would always separate her from them. And they still loved her, so maybe that was OK.

Undressing each other was a re-discovery, and she couldn't stop touching him. His arms, his back, his shoulders, she greeted the different parts of him like a long-lost and much loved friend. And he explored her like he was home after a long absence. Then they held onto each other.

She turned her back to him, pulled his arms around her, and tilted her head aside. His convulsed gasp followed by slow licks and kisses along her neck made her quiver.

"Not tempted?" she whispered.

He went still. "Tried it a long time ago with someone else I loved. Turned out badly for both of us. So, no. Not tempted." He drew her around to face him. "Not with you. But there isn't another human being on this planet who could get away with what you just did."

"I know."

"I've told you before, Slayer, you've got a death wish."

"Really don't." She brushed her lips against his. "Not with you."

She found herself on the bed, breathless, staring up into his deep violet-blue eyes. Her body remembered and welcomed him as he settled tenderly inside her.

He lay still and they shared growing surprise at the feel of her heart beating against his chest. She wondered how they could have not noticed something like that ever before.

He closed his eyes. "For a moment there, I thought I could remember what it felt like . . . ." He shook his head and looked at her again.

His smile made her throat ache, and she had to swallow hard. "William."

He stroked her face, and the irony of him comforting her wasn't lost on her. But when he kissed her, their tears mingled.

She could feel his need deepen, in line with her own, and a matchstick of terror flared. She yearned for him. She craved him. She just never wanted to want him again in the mindless way she did before—all desperation and body reflexes. But with this man, it was impossible to hold back intense feelings. It was impossible to stay gentle.

When he lifted her off the bed and into his lap, her legs around his waist, she soared. Joy and pleasure replaced fear. They continued to fill up on each other, over and over again, and she laughed to discover they could both flex their strength like unused muscles without hurting each other.

She surrendered to her passion. And to him. And she could have sworn he took her to another dimension and back.

_I love you, William. _

_OhGodIloveyou—_

"_SWEET WILLIAM!_"

He gave a final satisfying thrust, kissed her hard on the mouth, and rolled back.

"Bloody hell, Buffy, I've never heard my name like that before," he said, "so wholesome and yet so _dirty_!"

She pouted. "That observation is beneath you."

Reassured by his relaxed amusement, she stretched against him, tired. With her Slayer metabolism kicked into high gear, the feel of her skin against his, the feel of heat against room-temperature cool, sizzled. In the past, they'd never snuggled together. She couldn't remember why, because it felt so good.

"It was different this time," he murmured, yawning. "It was different to how we—to before."

"Yeah," she clasped his hand resting along her thigh, "it was different." _It was incredible._

His eyes fluttered closed. "And we didn't break anything."


	4. Chapter 4

"It's almost light, love."

His soft rumble-y words hummed deep inside her. They lay entangled, and he felt like a cool breeze on a hot, hot day.

She reached up and touched his chest where his heart didn't beat. He took her hand.

"Vampire, love," he said, dropping a kiss on her head. "It's been part of the package since long before we met."

She couldn't explain why it hurt her. "Spike."

"I got my soul back for you," he said, raising an eyebrow. "Am I going to have to roam the world to find a way to turn into a real little boy for you now too?"

Buffy's eyes widened and she rolled back to stare at the ceiling. "The Shanshu Prophecy," she breathed.

"What?"

"Nothing." Her brow crinkled. "I'm not sure. Something Angel mentioned once."

"Oh. Angel."

One chance for a vampire with a soul to become human again. Buffy rubbed her forehead. It was too big to think about just now.

She looked back at Spike and blinked. Rumpled, with a side of dazzling. _Breathe._

"And—What? _No_," she clipped out primly. "No roaming. Where are you going to roam anyway? Rome?"

Spike pulled her closer, trying not to look pleased.

"We'd better get up," she said, "before the pitter-patter of clomping teenage girlie feet brings eyes to see us in our naketude."

"There's time, pet. Don't slip away from me yet."

She rolled her eyes, and threw back the sheet just as Spike's arms tightened around her with vampire strength. He radiated a subtle air of vitality she had never felt before. Nervous energy began to spill out of her in anticipation of the day ahead, but she felt the urge to . . . bask for a moment.

"You're my sun, pet."

"Wh-what?" She'd just dreamt of him being the sun. That was weird.

"Well, dead man walking and all that, I have no heat of my own. But in your bright, energizing light, I can feel some real warmth . . .without bursting into flames."

"Oh. Sort of a retile-y thing."

He sighed. "I was thinking more of a planet thing."

She twisted in his arms to stare up at him. "A _planet_?"

"Well, planets are cold, dead things, aren't they, love." He frowned and examined the ceiling. "Uh, while at the same time being impressive and, uh, scary good fighters." He looked sideways, then glanced at her.

An edge of regret crept into his voice for starting down this road. "Saw it on the Discovery Channel. They get their energy by gathering the heat of the sun and . . . . Well, just add water and suddenly they're teeming with life."

Her eyebrows lifted. "Has anyone told you, you have the soul of a poet?"

Spike sucked in an unplanned breath and choked, releasing her. She pounded his back when his eyes watered.

"You said before you're not much of a thinker, but that's not really true, is it. Maybe vampiring doesn't call for a lot of thinking, but you read books. I've seen it." She broke into a grin. "And you watch the Discovery Channel."

"You're poking fun at me," he said with strained distance.

"You may not have done well in school," she continued, "but as a counselor for all of a couple of months I know, school milestones are _so_ random. Maybe all you need is another hundred years of reading and thinking to blossom into a real intellectual. Like Giles. You'll make some lucky Slayer a zesty Watcher some day." _Intellect _and_ toned pecs_._ I think I'm jealous of her, whoever she is._

"Intellectual? Giles? _Watcher_?" Spike scampered to the bottom of the bed and jammed himself against the wall, grasping the sheet to his chest. "Bloody hell, Slayer, you really come out swinging, don't you!"

"Well, now that the Watchers' Council has been eliminated, maybe it will be something different. But who better to teach a Slayer how to defend against demons than a vampire Watcher?"

"_A vamp_—?" He struggled for words. "You're the only Slayer I want to tangle with, Buffy."

"I'm not going to be here in a hundred years."

His mouth suddenly dropped open and his eyes went round. "I know what you're doing, you're planning a future for me without you!" He pointed at her, outraged. "Bollocks to that! You can stop it right now, you're not going to die today!"

_Busted_. She stood up and started pulling on her clothes.

"I'm just saying. I'm not going to be here forever."

"How do you know?" He grabbed his pants. "How many Slayers have died of natural causes? None, right? They keep getting picked off because there's only one of you at a time. But with an army of Slayers at your side and me watching your back, you might turn out to be immortal . . . like I am."

"I'm human."

He finished buckling his belt and turned to her, eyebrow lifting. "My ass," he said. "Your strength isn't human. Your healing isn't human."

She frowned at him in exasperation, trying to ignore his alabaster chest. "Would you quit all that thinkage?"

"You're going to get out of the Hellmouth alive," he said, stalking toward her. "I'll do whatever I have to do to get the job done, love. Because you believe in me. Because I'm your champion."

Their eyes locked, and she suddenly found herself in need of a cigarette.

He leaned in to kiss her, but she stepped back and turned her head. _Not now, William, or I'll cry_.

Refusing to look at him, she rummaged through the bed clothes, and came across the talisman. She turned it over in her hands. Shiny, and not in a good way. It was volatile and she didn't want him wearing it. But he had a right.

"We've got a big fight ahead of us," she said, handing it to him. "Let's get through that first."

"You'll swat the First's über-vampires like the mess of mosquitoes they are," he said, his fingers closing around the charm.

She looked at him at last. "_We'll_ swat them, Champion."

A mischievous grin spread across his face. "You know," he said, "in the olden days, a lady gave her champion a favor to hang from his armor."

She frowned. "Favor? You mean, like a bag of candies?"

"Uh, well, usually it was a piece of clothing. Some sort of . . ." he moved his arm vaguely, "trim from her frock. Or a hanky. Something personal."

Buffy looked down at her clothes, her hands in an I-got-nothing gesture.

"Tell me," Spike pulled something from his back pocket, "will you be wanting these again?"

Her mouth fell open and heat swept into her face as she stared at the scrap of lace and silk woven through his fingers. She spun away, shoulders trembling, afraid she'd lose her composure, and then turned back to him.

"This time you can keep them," she said, unable to stop herself laughing out loud. "Just no hanging of the very private favor from the talisman."

"But it's tradition, pet!" he teased. "It was a matter of pride for the champion that people could see who favored him."

"What, you're an expert in history now, as well as science?"

"No, you got me, love," he said, slipping them back in his pocket. "You know I don't kiss and tell."

Buffy sighed in relief.

"I'm sure I can find a more discreet place to hang them."

"Spike!"

She closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. _Spirits lifted, check_. When she opened her eyes again, he was watching her, smiling.

He looked up. "Pitter-patter," he said with a sigh. "And so the day begins."

Buffy looked up too, but couldn't hear anything.

Spike captured his shirt from under the bed and, pulling it on, walked over to her. Buoyancy and confidence came off him in waves. His vibrant blue eyes drilled into her until nothing else existed.

"Tell you what, Slayer," he said, "today I can do anything for you."

* * *

**Epilogue**

_I love you, Buffy. _He watched her climb the stairs. _But, to save me, you have to love Spike too. _

She looked back once, smiled, and closed the basement door quietly behind her.

_And sometimes I forget how young you are, love. _

He turned away.


End file.
